


Not My Mummy!

by ConsultingWriter



Series: Home Fires [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dragon!Sherlock - Freeform, Fluff, Hamish - Freeform, Hamish is an egg, I honestly don't even know how to describe this, I really don't, M/M, Mummy!Mycroft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-11
Updated: 2013-03-11
Packaged: 2017-12-05 00:56:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/717032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConsultingWriter/pseuds/ConsultingWriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John looks back on a time before Hamish has hatched. (This is really more about Sherlock, John, and Mycroft)</p><p> <i>“Yes Sherlock?” the blonde inquired as he shrugged out of his coat and hung it by the door before turning to his lover who sat cross-legged in his chair, a large egg wrapped in a light blue baby blanket perched in the cradle of his long legs.</i><br/><i>“Tell Mycroft to stop being such a,” the detective paused and screwed up his face and hissed the word “A </i><br/><b>clutch mother!”</b><br/><i>John sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. He didn’t even know what the word meant, sometimes he wondered if Sherlock remembered that John wasn’t a dragon.</i><br/><i>“Mycroft,” John said patiently “Whatever you’re doing to wind Sherlock up, please stop it, you know he’s been snappier since we conceived.”</i></p><p> </p><p>  <b> Edited to expand on Mycroft and Mother </b></p>
            </blockquote>





	Not My Mummy!

**Author's Note:**

> New part in the Home Fires series (which btw, needs a name, if anyones got one).  
> Yeah, this needs a name too.  
> Tell me what you think!

The blonde doctor snuck through the sitting area quietly, tip-toeing past the mass of limbs on the floor between his and Sherlock’s chairs. Silently as he could he opened the refrigerator door and deposited the gallon of milk inside before moving past the pile once more to settle on the couch. After a moment he grinned softly and pulled out his phone, snapping a quick picture before sliding his phone back into his pocket and picking up the latest book he’d been attempting—rather unsuccessfully—to read, glad for the moment of peace in the usually chaotic flat.

Glancing once more at the pile on the floor, he thought back to the day his family truly became whole.

* * *

 

The moment John Watson walked through the door of his flat he immediately turned around and started to make his way back down the seventeen steps that lead up to 221B Baker Street. He would’ve made it too, if his mate hadn’t caught his scent on an updraft.

“John!” he heard the other man bellow, “John come here!”

Now, Dr. John Hamish Watson—Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers—thought himself a brave man, but there was a fine line between bravery and stupidity and stepping between the Holmes brothers when they were wound up blew right through that line and sped into “cosmic stupidity” territory.

He squared his shoulders and turned back towards the door when his name was called once more, it wouldn’t do to have Sherlock set his things on fire in a fit of rage at being ignored.

“Yes Sherlock?” the blonde inquired as he shrugged out of his coat and hung it by the door before turning to his lover who sat cross-legged in his chair, a large egg wrapped in a light blue baby blanket perched in the cradle of his long legs.

“Tell Mycroft to stop being such a,” the detective paused and screwed up his face and hissed the word “A _clutch mother_!”

John sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. He didn’t even know what the word meant, sometimes he wondered if Sherlock remembered that John wasn’t a dragon.

“Mycroft,” John said patiently “Whatever you’re doing to wind Sherlock up, please stop it, you know he’s been snappier since we conceived.”

“Not snappy!” Sherlock barked and a large gust of wind swept through the flat as giant black wings fluttered angrily behind the detective.

“Ah, yes.” John said with a pointed look at the stack of papers that had been swept off the kitchen table. Sherlock huffed in response and hunched lower around the egg.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft began loftily, swinging his umbrella slowly “I must protest this, you cannot brood openly in your flat, you really must move it to your bedroom.”

Sherlock hissed and folded his wings around both himself and the egg as if that would block out Mycroft.

John raised an eyebrow and turned to Mycroft “Clutch mother?” He asked as if Sherlock weren’t there.

“The partner who broods the egg the most is known as a ‘clutch mother’ in less civilized circles, and really Sherlock, you should stop using such language, it’s uncouth.”

John blinked at that and wondered why Sherlock was calling Mycroft a ‘clutch mother’ then.

Mycroft hummed “Ah, yes, I suppose he wouldn’t tell you that story would he?”

John’s eyebrow hiked higher up his forehead in question and Mycroft chuckled.

“Did you know, John, that Mother laid both of our eggs at the same time?”

John blinked and glanced from his sulking mate to the posh, umbrella swinging man in front of him and Mycroft chuckled.

“Sherlock always has been stubborn about doing things that others wanted him to do, he was a late hatcher.”

John’s eyebrows furrowed “But you’re several years older than Sherlock….” He trailed off in confusion.

Mycroft cleared his throat slightly “Yes, well, when I say late, I do mean quite late. Sherlock has always liked to be so dramatic.”

John could practically hear the detective’s hidden sneer from where he stood.

“After a while Mummy gave up on his egg, she thought he would never hatch, so I...” here the older Holmes paused and cleared his throat in embarrassment “I brooded him myself until he hatched.”

John was shocked, from what Sherlock had told John, dragons didn’t brood eggs that weren’t their own; in fact, they’d sooner break an egg that wasn’t their own before incubating it.

“Doesn’t mean you are entitled to be my clutch mother!” Sherlock shouted from behind his wing and John rolled his eyes; yes, actually, it did.

Mycroft coughed pointedly and Sherlock huffed once more behind his wing.

“Yes, well, I must be going, John” he tipped his head politely before turning to look at Sherlock “brother,” and with that he was striding out the door, umbrella tapping rhythmically every step of the way.

When the door at the bottom of the stairs opened and closed, the black wings surrounding the dragon dropped.

“That was tedious.” Sherlock snorted and shifted sideways so that his legs were kicked over one arm of the chair and his bundle was held to his chest by gentle arms.

John gave his lover a look “You should be nicer to your brother after all he’s done for you.”

The dragon turned his head away from his mate and let out a low, almost sorrowful sound “I know,” he started quietly “It’s just—this is my egg, our egg, and I’ll brood it how I want.”

There was more to it than that and John knew it “Sherlock,” he implored and the other man shot up, clutching the egg tight to him as he stared at John with wide eyes.

“He always calls that woman _Mummy_ , at me, like she’s mine, like she’s my mother.” Sherlock spit the word mummy with so much venom that John, hardened soldier that he was, barely held back a flinch “She never cared. Mycroft brooded my egg, he raised me, taught me how to fly, and nursed me through my first fire-flu, not that woman, and then he left me with her. He left and said ‘Be good for Mummy, Sherlock,’ but she wasn’t my Mummy, he was!” He looked at John with wild eyes as his chest heaved “Mycroft was mine. My Mummy and he left me!” Immediately the dragon felt bad. It wasn't that he didn't love his Mother, or that he hated her, because he did, he did love his Mother, but she wasn't his Mummy, and she never would be. She might have cared when he was sick or hurting, but the rest of the time she was distant, obviously finished with child rearing. Mycroft was the one who changed him, fed him, read to him, bathed him, and loved him, but he left Sherlock, telling him to be good for a woman who had never involved herself in his upbringing. He tugged at his hair in frustration, Mycroft just didn't understand, and neither would John. John, his beautiful, wonderful John would never understand this.

John softened and moved to kneel in front of his distressed love “Oh lovely,” he shushed, stroking the dragon’s hair gently “He never meant to leave forever, just  for school, and when he returned to you, you’d already shut him out, he’s still waiting to be your Mummy, you just have to let him.”

The Doctor smoothly pulled their egg from his lover and nudged him softly “Go talk to your Mum; we’ll be here when you get back, yeah?”

Sherlock felt the air leave his lungs as he looked at his mate’s honest, accepting, face and nodded. This. This was why he chose John. His mate had always accepted him, no matter how strange and ‘freakish’ he and his background were.

He unfolded himself from his chair and swooped down to catch his mate’s lips in a tender kiss before pulling on his coat and sweeping out the door after the one who had raised him.

When to door closed John turned to his egg and bounced it lightly, as if it were already a baby. “Your Papa has a ton of familial issues, doesn’t he Misha?”

Sherlock insisted that the egg was a boy, and John ceded to both the detective’s knowledge of his own species as well as his superior intellect.

He brought the egg closer to his chest with one hand while he used the other to make tea “We should head to bed soon, or I should at least.” The Doctor told the egg and then began to hum softly to himself to fill the stillness of the flat.

When Sherlock returned to 221B that evening, it was in a state of calm that he hadn’t been in since he was a child and John could see it in his face.

Slowly the Doctor lifted his left arm from where it was wrapped tightly around the egg—which was now clad in an oatmeal colored jumper instead to the blue baby blanket—and beckoned his mate to bed. Sherlock smiled and climbed onto the bed silently, pulling both his mate and egg close, fitting the egg tightly into the curve of his curled form and tucked his mate’s head under his chin. With a light sigh he drifted to sleep slowly. He’d never known he could ever be this happy.

* * *

 

A sound on the floor pulled John out of his thoughts and he watched as Mycroft shifted his wing to pull Sherlock closer as the detective shifted his own wing to cover more of Hamish (who had his wings tucked around the small plush cow that John had given him on his first birthday). Yes, John decided, as he watched his child, husband, and his husband’s ‘mummy’ curled together in their nest of blankets, his family really was absolutely complete.


End file.
